


Mother to Son

by TurnIt0ff



Series: The In-Between [2]
Category: The Book of Mormon - Ambiguous Fandom, The Book of Mormon - Parker/Stone/Lopez
Genre: 12daysofBOM, Christmas, Discussion of nightmares, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Mother-Son Relationship, Mrs. Price is a good person sometimes, Past Domestic Violence, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slice of Life, she's trying ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:55:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28243521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TurnIt0ff/pseuds/TurnIt0ff
Summary: Connor is awake in the wee, dark hours of the Price household, but not as alone as he thinks.
Relationships: Elder "Connor" McKinley/Kevin Price
Series: The In-Between [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2068908
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20
Collections: 12 Days of Book of Mormon (2020)





	Mother to Son

**Author's Note:**

> This is my (late) Day 8 prompt for the 12 Days of BOM challenge!
> 
> It's written as a followup to my previous fic _The Time In-Between,_ and would probably make the most sense if you've read that one first, but it might work as a stand alone? Idk, you'd probably figure it out. This isn't much, just a tiny little slice of a moment I couldn't get out of my head. 
> 
> Side note, there is also a short piece I wrote on Tumblr a while back called _The Olive Branch_ that was a part of this universe and would chronologically be placed between _The Time In-Between_ and this one, so I will probably upload that as part of the series at some point, too. 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!

It was cold when Connor awoke before the sunrise, his bare feet exposed at the ends of his pajama bottoms. He was in Kevin’s bed this time, which explained the frigid temperature. Kevin had taken most of the blanket in his sleep, though Connor hadn’t exactly put up much of a fight. 

It had been another rough night. They were starting to happen more and more often; the bad nights, the nightmares that woke him trembling, gasping for air, crying in Connor’s arms until he fell back asleep, only for it to happen all over again an hour later. He never liked to talk about them, but Connor knew. It was the same thing he had witnessed in Uganda, back when the trauma of everything was so fresh in his mind. The last two years had seen improvement, the smile returning to Kevin’s face, but being back in the states seemed to have triggered something that sent him spiraling backwards in his recovery. He had tried prompting Kevin to see someone, to talk to a professional now that he had the means to do so, but he had brushed him off, and Connor wasn’t keen to push the delicate subject. 

His parents didn’t know about what happened to him, and it wasn’t Connor’s place to tell. Though he had suspicions Mrs. Price knew more than she let on. It was very likely the reason their sleeping arrangements were what they were. 

Officially, on paper, the rules were the same ones they set when the Prices reluctantly allowed Connor into their home a couple of months prior: that he would stay on the pullout in Jack’s room until he got back on his feet, and Kevin would stay in his own room across the hall. They had tried to stick to it, at least most of the time, out of respect for Kevin’s parents, but things changed when the nightmares started getting bad again. 

Jack was an unexpected champ in all of it, willing and happy to cover for them when they switched rooms in the middle of the night. Connor was grateful for him, especially. Not only for his hospitality in sharing his room without complaint when he learned of Connor’s predicament, but for caring so much about his big brother that he was willing to step outside of his comfort zone to help him in his time of need. 

They had only been caught outright once, which was the night he learned Mrs. Price had suspicions of her own that something wasn’t quite right with her son after his mission. Kevin’s cries must have been loud enough to rouse her from sleep that night, because there was a faint knock on the door before she poked her head in, her robe tugged tightly around her middle and eyes laced with motherly concern. She’d found Connor wrapped around Kevin’s trembling form in bed, wide awake and propped against the headboard. He had stiffened at her entrance, his eyes locked onto hers from across the room. Kevin hadn't noticed the exchange, preoccupied in the aftermath of his nightmare and crying into Connor’s sweatshirt, and still didn’t know about it to this day. There had been an apology, or perhaps an explanation of sorts, caught in Connor’s throat, but Mrs. Price had simply dropped her gaze to her son, then back to Connor with a barely-perceptible nod before she stepped back into the darkness of the hallway and closed the door behind her. 

She had never brought it up again, but she hadn’t chastised either of them for the sleeping arrangements either. And Connor felt like there was a statement in that, alone. 

Trying his best to avoid shifting Kevin in his sleep, Connor slipped out from under what little of the blanket he had left, scooting to the edge of the bed. He sat up, turning back toward his sleeping boyfriend to tuck the blanket around his shoulders, brushing a clump of messy, brown hair back from his forehead. He couldn’t help himself; he leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to Kevin’s forehead before he stood, stretching his arms above his head. 

It was still dark outside, and judging by the green glowing digits on the alarm clock, it would be for at least another hour or so. December had fallen hard over rural Utah, cutting their daylight nearly in half as they segued into another harsh winter. It was the bitter kind of cold outside; the kind that crept into the home while you were sleeping, radiating in through glass-panel windows and making the old beams of the house creak and groan like a ghost moving through the walls. 

Connor made his way over to the top drawer of Kevin’s dresser, pulling it open to rummage through his intricately organized socks. He smiled as he landed on a pair in the front row, picking them up to reveal a print of tiny penguins wearing santa hats and matching red scarves. Chuckling with a slight shake of his head, Connor sank down into Kevin’s desk chair and pulled the socks over his ice-cold feet, flexing his toes to admire the sight of the adorable fabric.

He was, unfortunately, the type that could never get back to sleep after waking past a certain hour, so it was no use crawling back in bed and risking waking Kevin with his restless tossing and turning. There was, of course, always the option of going back to his _approved_ bed, but he didn’t want to wake Jack either. Instead, he decided it was the perfect time to take advantage of the empty kitchen and a rare moment of alone time. 

His footsteps were quiet and careful as he slipped out the door, casting one last look back at Kevin’s sleeping form, and made his way down the hallway. Answering the urgent call of his bladder, he ducked into the bathroom before heading downstairs. 

As he washed his hands after, he looked up at his reflection in the mirror above the sink. The bruises his father left that had marred his features for weeks had finally faded, leaving only the ghost of their memory when he caught a glimpse of his face. The split in his lip had taken the longest to heal, what with his nervous habit of biting at it, and probably would have still been there if not for Mrs. Price loaning him some of her medicated lip balm with a light chastising to stop picking at it. But even without the physical reminders, he could still see the ugly, violent swirl of purple under his eye as he looked in the mirror; could almost feel the phantom swell of pain as he traced a finger along his orbital bone. He dropped his hand to his side, shutting off the bathroom light as he left. 

The wooden railing along the staircase was intricately wrapped with garland, accented with artificial poinsettias every foot or so, and a string of lights that extended down into the home’s main corridor. The Price family did not hold back when it came to Christmas, he had learned, watching the house undergo a drastic transformation the day after Thanksgiving came and went. It had been an incredibly precious thing, watching the Price siblings band together over their mutual enthusiasm for the holidays, but it had stung a little bit, too. Connor had tucked himself into the background despite Kevin’s insistence that he join them, unwilling to impose himself on something that was very clearly a tradition for just the three of them. He already had enough reason to feel like an intruder in their home as it was.

Connor yawned as he approached the open doorway of the kitchen, so his eyes were still closed when a soft voice startled him from across the room.

“Good morning,” Mrs. Price greeted. 

Connor clutched onto the door frame for support, sending up a silent prayer of _thanks_ that, by some miracle, he hadn’t let an expletive slip at the scare. 

“Oh, um— hi. Good morning,” he cleared his throat, his voice still thick and gravelly from sleep. “Sorry, I didn’t think anyone else would be awake. I was just…” He gestured vaguely at the table and chairs adjacent to the large cooking area. “Getting some water.”

Mrs. Price offered him a tight smile; the same guarded expression she always seemed to wear in his presence. “No need to apologize,” she assured him. “You were told to make yourself at home.”

He nodded, feeling a bit awkward with just the two of them there alone. He supposed it would probably be best if he just poured himself a glass and headed back upstairs to save them both the trouble of either obligatory small talk or tense silence. 

He wasn’t unaware of the precarious non-relationship he held with Kevin’s mother, acknowledging the fact that she had only opened up her home out of the good-Mormon nature of her heart. Though they had never spoken directly about it, or about much of anything to be precise, Connor was quite sure his being in the house served as a constant reminder of the underlying family issues (read: their eldest son’s distinct not-straightness) they would rather not address. He could only imagine that didn’t inspire a ton of enthusiasm for his presence, but he was grateful for their generosity nonetheless. 

Besides, Connor was no stranger to feeling like a burden. He had lived most of his life under the crushing knowledge that it was exactly what he was to his own parents, ever since the day he confessed his secret thoughts to his bishop, mistakenly thinking it was a safe place to do so. 

As he padded over to the fridge, he couldn’t help but notice the extensive display of seasonings and spices Mrs. Price had laid out on the counter in front of her. None of them looked like her typical spread of daily breakfast fixings he had come to recognize as routine. He retrieved a plastic cup — the dark blue one with the faded mascot from Kevin’s high school — and poured his water. 

“What are you making?” He asked timidly, genuinely curious but also desperate to fill the heavy silence between them. 

She blinked up at him, looking almost surprised he had initiated a conversation with her, which… fair enough. Then came the typical, tight smile of hers. “A little bit of everything,” she said with the air of a joke, though her voice was just as rigid as ever. “Christmas Eve is a bit of an _event_ at my mother-in-law’s. I’m bringing the ham and the dessert this year. Got to get an early start if there’s any chance of making it over there by three.” 

“Ah. Okay.” Connor took a long swig of the cold water, hoping to wash back the sudden burn behind his eyes at the thought of his own family’s plans for the evening. Of what they would tell his grandparents, his cousins, about his absence from the gathering. If they already knew. 

Unwilling to let his emotions show through, Connor took the opportunity to turn away, taking the jug to the sink to refill what he had taken. 

“It’s early,” she commented after a moment, not looking up from the bowl of some sort of glaze she had begun stirring. 

Connor turned off the faucet. “I have a hard time getting back to sleep in the mornings,” he told her. Once I’m up, I’m up.” He thought he felt her eyes on him as he carried the pitcher back to the fridge, but she was turned back toward the counter when he closed the refrigerator door. 

She must have sensed him lingering uneasily as he took another sip of his water, because she spoke again, still not looking up from her work. “You’re welcome to stay down here for a little while if you can’t sleep,” she offered. Connor froze with his cup halfway to his lips, his eyebrows raising. At his hesitance, she finally shot him a brief glance over her shoulder, shrugging with a slightly softer smile than he was used to seeing. “I’m a light sleeper, too,” she said. “I get it.”

Despite his frank surprise at the gesture, Connor forced a small smile back in her direction before she turned back around, and found himself sinking into one of the barstools along the counter. 

The quiet that followed, broken only by the soft sounds of stirring and chopping, was far less awkward than it could have been, which Connor appreciated. It did, however, allow his mind way too much freedom to wander. His sleep-riddled eyes fell into something of a trance as he watched Mrs. Price’s hands move expertly around the kitchen, conjuring images of his own mother, memories of all the Christmases past where he had watched her cook. Sometimes as a kid, he had tried to help, grabbing one of her spare aprons from the pantry and tying it around his waist to match her, even as the length practically dragged the floor. _Mommy’s little helper,_ she had affectionately called him, tapping the tip of his nose with a floury finger, leaving a tiny print of dust behind. 

His father hadn’t been so supportive of his curiosity in the kitchen. Once he reached middle school, he would nudge Connor outside to play with his cousins instead, saying that the girls would take care of dinner. Connor didn’t like the games his cousins played, nor was he particularly fond of the cousins in question, but the sharp glint of disappointment in his dad’s eyes was enough to push him out of the kitchen. One year, when Connor was thirteen and told his father he would much rather help his mom than play football outside, he pulled him aside and told Connor exactly what everyone was going to think he was if he kept hanging out with the girls. It wasn’t the first time he had heard the ugly word tossed his direction, but it was certainly the one that hurt the worst. He’d stopped trying to help in the kitchen after that. 

It occurred to him, with a sudden, sharp stab of pain, that he may never spend another Christmas with his mom again. Perhaps worse, was that he hadn’t spent a Christmas with her since he was eighteen, the year before he left on his mission, and he had had no way of knowing it would be his last. 

The burn of tears caught him by surprise, and he hurriedly swiped at his eyes with the back of his shirtsleeves to stop them before Mrs. Price could turn around and see him. It didn’t do much, because there were fresh tears blooming as soon as he could wipe the previous ones away, and he knew there was no stopping it now. He pushed his stool away from the counter, loudly scraping against the floorboards. 

“I’ll get out of your hair,” he rushed out, at the same time Mrs. Price turned to him and said, “Would you like to give me a hand?”

He stood frozen for a moment, blinking at her as he processed her invitation. There was no chance she didn’t notice the obvious sign of his crying, but she didn’t say anything to draw attention to it, which he appreciated.

“Oh,” Connor spoke quietly, clearing his throat. “Um. Yes, sure. If- if you would like some help.”

She pursed her lips. “Don’t feel obligated, of course,” she said. “You are a guest, after all. I just figured, since you can’t sleep…”

Something deep in Connor’s chest warmed at her words, at the sincerity in her voice, her eyes. He was deeply afraid he was going to start crying again if he didn’t do something to distract himself, so he stepped forward, setting his cup down on the counter again. “I’d love to help.”

Her smile softened a bit. “Good.” She nodded once, then gestured to the sink before getting back to chopping. “Wash your hands.”

He did. 

They fell into an easy routine. She would give him one little task at a time; finely chop these, sift out the clumps, stir until smooth. He completed each one with focused diligence, chasing after the sudden, instinctual urge to make Kevin’s mother proud of him. If he closed his eyes, he could almost believe he was eight years old again, wearing a too-big apron with a dash of flour on the tip of his nose. 

After a while of working in a comfortable quiet, the sun began to rise above the rows of houses outside the window above the sink, spilling natural light into the kitchen as it reflected off of yesterday’s fallen snow. It wasn’t long after that they heard the first patter of footsteps down the stairs. 

“Merry Christmas Ev- Oh.” Kevin stopped short in the doorway, looking between them. Connor turned at the sound of his voice, butterflies forming in his stomach at the sight of his sleep-tousled hair. “Um, good morning. Both of you.”

“Good morning, sweetheart,” Mrs. Price replied. Connor lifted his mouth into an easy half-smile. 

Kevin sauntered toward them, one eyebrow raised in Connor’s direction and the unmistakable pull of a smile at the corner of his mouth. He came around to the counter on the other side of Connor, reaching around him to retrieve the french press he kept tucked away behind the sugar jar. Connor had been thoroughly surprised when Kevin told him his mom had more or less come around to allowing him to make and drink the stuff in the house. 

“Nice socks,” Kevin commented, nudging his elbow softly against his. 

He looked down at his feet, curling his penguin-clad toes into the hardwood. “Thanks.” He flashed him a cheeky grin.

He could tell Kevin was eager to ask what all this was about, how this cozy, early-morning cooking arrangement had come to be, and he was sure he would get an earful of questions later. But for now, he looked thoroughly, completely content in watching it happen. It was only then that Connor realized he was feeling pretty content, too. 

“Coffee?” Kevin offered quietly as he poured his grounds into the device. 

“Sure,” he replied, mostly because he knew how much Kevin enjoyed the simple act of making Connor’s morning cup for him just how he liked it. 

Connor kept working, stirring together some mixture of whipped cream and crumbled cookies that had been passed to him. With Mrs. Price glazing the thawed ham to his left and Kevin boiling water in a kettle to his right, standing close enough that their shoulders would occasionally brush as they worked, Connor caught a glimpse of a life, a future he never thought he would have for himself, but one that might be in the cards for him after all. 

This Christmas wouldn’t look like all the ones he had grown up with, and it would hurt like hell every time he remembered why. But with the promise of building new memories like this one, in a sun-drenched kitchen with busy hands and a full heart and the smell of fresh-brewed coffee to his right, Connor thought it might not be so terrible after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading/kudosing/commenting! You all give me free serotonin.


End file.
